


Four Truths

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 16:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Since the Federation insists on depriving itself of Dr. Bashir's talents, Garak comes up with an excellent idea for his friend's post-Starfleet life - and somehow loses control of his own plan.





	Four Truths

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the last entry in my Unrelated "Doctor Bashir, I Presume" trilogy. I've played with the timeline for this one, so imagine DBIP takes place as the second-to-last episode of Season 5, right before "Call to Arms."

The entire Alpha Quadrant was soon to enter war on a previously unimagined scale and the Federation, with its usual short-sighted moral rigidity, was depriving itself of Dr. Bashir’s considerable talents. It was almost as though they didn’t care if they were overrun by the Dominion, so long as they could take comfort in their peculiar societal rules and phobias. Really, what was a bit of genetic engineering in the grand tapestry of the universe?

Bajor wouldn’t take Bashir for risk of offending the Federation, so he was packing his bags and planning to open a clinic on some nonaligned world halfway across the quadrant. A waste of such magnitude was the real crime, as far as Garak was concerned.

Now the doctor found himself scorned by all but his closest comrades, having escaped a court-martial only by dint of Captain Sisko’s influence. Miles O’Brien had joined him in drinking copious amounts of whisky, which Garak interpreted as an expression of solidarity, as well as contrived to block all eager journalists’ requests for interviews from reaching the doctor. When Bashir was forced to leave his quarters and lacked funds to pay the Bajoran government for temporary lodging, Jadzia Dax moved him into her quarters without a second thought for anyone else’s opinion.

Garak took a different approach and made appropriate arrangements. He then convinced Bashir to join him for their regular lunch. (“I wouldn’t like to be deprived of your company any earlier than I absolutely must,” he’d said, and that much was true.) Bashir wouldn’t hear of the Replimat, but he’d agreed to meet in Garak’s quarters.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.”

“Don’t call me that anymore.”

It was intended as a sign of respect, to say Garak still thought him worthy of the title, but such did not always translate across cultures. “Very well. Good afternoon, Bashir.”

Bashir relaxed fractionally. “Good afternoon, Garak.”

“Is it too warm for you?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you for turning the heat down. And before you ask, no, I do not need the lights any brighter. I have excellent vision,” he said bitterly.

“But not, I suspect, such excellent taste in literature that you appreciate Na’Rota Kar.” His computer chimed. “Excuse me.”

As expected, the caller was General Martok. “Garak!” he said. “Have you spoken with him?”

“I thought you’d better do the honors.”

Bashir gave Garak what humans called a ‘dirty look.’ “You set me up.”

“Only with the best of intentions.”

“Garak and I have a common enemy in the Dominion,” said Martok. “We agree that there is no reason to waste your skills when so many will have need of them soon.”

“I never got the impression Klingons were terribly concerned with surviving war,” said Bashir.

“There is nothing to fear from an honorable death. We embrace it. Still, if too many of us go to Sto’Vo’Kor before the coming war is over, we will cede our children to the Dominion, and that I am unwilling to permit.”

“I can’t fault your logic,” said Bashir. 

“My medical officer is useless. Would you believe I almost had a bekk commit Hegh’bat over a misdiagnosis? He only had an ulcer in one of his stomachs.”

Bashir was duly appalled. “That’s unacceptable.”

“I know. The position is yours, if you want it. I anticipate trips to Deep Space Nine in the future, where I would require you be treated with respect due a Klingon officer. Anything less on the Federation’s part would be dishonoring me.”

“Just like that?” asked Bashir.

“You are qualified,” said Martok. “I doubt I could find a better doctor, and I’d rather you spare me the trouble.”

This was all quite true. Garak had done very little, really; he merely made Martok aware of the situation, and the general had leapt to the precise conclusion Garak wanted. It was well known that the Klingon Empire did not produce the best doctors in the quadrant, and Martok was broad-minded enough to see a good opportunity when one was presented to him.

“In that case, I accept,” said Bashir, smiling. “I hated the idea of sitting out this war treating colds and twisted ankles.”

The general was pleased. “Ah, a warrior’s spirit! Very good, Doctor. The _Rotarran_ will arrive in six days.” Turning to Garak, he said, “I could also use a Cardassian consultant.”

Garak was not an easy man to catch by surprise. Martok succeeded admirably, which was dismaying. “You can’t be serious.”

Bashir smirked in the way which meant he was enjoying himself tremendously at Garak’s expense.

“Why not?” asked Martok. “We have a common enemy.”

“Yes, but that’s hardly a reason for me to join you.”

“Since Cardassia has joined the Dominion, we could use someone with your insights.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what kind of insights you think I have.”

He wanted to defeat the Dominion, certainly. Dukat’s latest idiocy was going to be an unmitigated disaster for Cardassia sooner or later, and Garak intended to make good on his pledge to avenge Tain’s death if at all possible. He didn’t think working with the Klingon Empire (which, not so long ago, had merrily been making war on the Union, instigated by a Changeling imposter or not) was necessarily the best way to do so.

“Besides, don’t you want to be with him?” asked Martok, looking meaningfully at Bashir.

For his part, the doctor was no longer smirking. Garak wondered when, exactly, his excellent plan for his friend’s post-Starfleet life had gotten so thoroughly out of control.

“I think you have the wrong idea about us,” Garak said, words chosen with great care.

Martok grunted. “Have I? It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” muttered Bashir. Interestingly, he didn’t look repulsed, only embarrassed.

It was true, of course, that Bashir was Garak’s only friend, and once he left the station Garak would be very lonely indeed. Dear Ziyal had made the sensible choice to return to Cardassia with her odious father. Odo was a breakfast companion, and someone Garak respected, but nothing more.

Granted, it was also possible that Martok might not have entirely misread the situation, at least as far as Garak’s own long-denied feelings were concerned. How was Garak to know the difference between the lengths one went out of platonic and romantic affection? He’d never had an opportunity for (or been cursed with, depending on how one looked at it) either before.

“You don’t think Bashir should be wasted in the war,” said Martok. “Why should you be any different?”

Well, there was that.

“He’s debating how much gagh he can stand,” said Bashir, unhelpfully but to his own amusement.

Martok took this more seriously than it was intended. “Gagh is a delicacy. If you do not want it, I will be happy to eat your portion.”

“I will consider your suggestion,” said Garak at last.

He was under no illusions. If he wanted to serve Cardassia – an independent Cardassia, not a Dominion puppet – he would, barring a surprising and successful revolt against Dominion rule, be forced to work with the other side to defeat the Dominion. (An exile’s options were woefully limited.) He had, however, assumed the other side in question would be the Federation.

How much help could he be to the Federation with their moralizing, lacking Bashir to advocate for him? What if Dukat retook the station? That was a strong possibility, whereupon Garak’s life would be forfeit, rendering him singularly useless in the struggle to free Cardassia from the Dominion.

Then, of course, there was his unwise attachment to the doctor, which he feared was biasing his consideration.

“You have six days,” said Martok. “Use them wisely.” Turning his attention to Bashir, he went on, “I look forward to having you aboard, Doctor.”

As soon as Martok terminated the conversation, Bashir turned to Garak and said, “You could have told me.”

“And ruin the surprise?”

“It’s going to be a very different life.”

“Certainly. But it will not be a life spent wasting your abilities, forcibly sidelined while your friends contribute to the great fight of your generation.” Garak was painfully and intimately aware of how devastating uselessness could be, and he wanted to spare Bashir that if at all possible.

“Thank you,” said Bashir. “This was incredibly thoughtful of you, Garak.”

“Think nothing of it.” Truly. The less he thought about Martok’s insinuation, the better.

“I’ll have to learn to speak Klingon.”

“It’s not a difficult language.”

“Says the polyglot. You learned Standard in what, four months?”

“Klingon only took two.” Admittedly, he’d been told his accent was poor, but he chose not to mention that detail. “And as you have the same advantages I did, I’m sure you’ll find yourself equal to the task.”

Bashir froze. “Don’t lie about this. It’s not a joking matter.”

“My dear doctor – yes, you are a doctor again, and I will refer to you as such – do you really think Tain would have left such a thing to chance?”

Garak’s genetics had not been altered to the extent Bashir’s had been, if only because Tain hadn’t bothered with anything physical. The prenatal scans satisfied him in that department; Garak had always suspected that much pleased his father’s ego. Tain had, however, taken pains to ensure his unwanted son would be very intelligent, and thus of great use.

Bashir looked as though he was working very hard to divine whether or not Garak was telling the truth, and probably suspected it was due to the mention of his paternity. Garak continued to be truthful, even if so much honesty all at once was not his first preference. Nor second. “It’s not outlawed on Cardassia, you know. Expensive, yes, and uncommon, but entirely legal if one has the means and the procedure is done before the child is born. I simply do not understand the Federation’s paranoia.”

Bashir darted over (quicker even than Garak had anticipated, which was a touch worrisome) and kissed him. Cardassians did not generally engage in the practice, but the brief experience suggested to Garak it was not entirely without merit.

“Martok was right,” the doctor said.

“Wherever did you get that impression?” asked Garak, trying vainly to regain control of the situation.

“Four truths,” replied Bashir.

Of course. He’d remembered the line from _Meditations on a Crimson Shadow_ : ‘When a private man offers four truths, you can be assured of his affection.’

“One: you let me hear you with Tain. Two: your neck ridges flushed just so when Martok suggested we’re together. The slightest bit, but enough to suggest you rather like the idea. Three: you told me you were also genetically enhanced. Four: you let me kiss you.”

“I am still underestimating you,” said Garak. It was inexcusable, really. “But the line in question only refers to spoken truths.”

“I don’t think so.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

“I’m not asking for any promises, Garak. Just for right now, this lunch hour.”

Typical human impatience. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right, and the remains of a lunch hour is nowhere near long enough. I’ll simply have to reopen later than usual today.”

Garak then commenced a highly educational afternoon. For one thing, he discovered he did not enjoy tangling his tongue with another’s, but was agreeable to some degree of human kissing because, to be perfectly honest with himself, he was very enamored of having Bashir’s attention so thoroughly focused on him. He learned that human necks, while smooth and lacking the exquisite sensitivity of ridges, were not immune to the pleasures of intimate caresses, though they demanded a light touch; discovered what Bashir looked like naked, which had been a question of interest for longer than he cared to admit; heard the breathless sounds the man made when seeking more stimulation; and finally, when they were lying sated on the bed, Garak learned from his own mind that he wasn’t entirely opposed joining the crew of the _Rotarran_.

Provided he had reason to, of course.

* * *

Bashir didn’t ask him to join Martok’s crew, and Garak didn’t offer any information on his private musings. They did meet for sex the next three days, in between Bashir’s attempts to teach himself Klingon and the lessons Dax was giving him on how to behave among Klingons, but there was no talk of the future. They focused on immediate pleasures.

All that changed the fourth day, when it became evident the Federation would evacuate the station. Bashir arrived in a very somber mood.

“It’s a matter of days before the war starts,” he said.

“I know,” replied Garak. “I never expected to have common cause with a Klingon general.”

Bashir attempted without success to appear entirely casual. For a man who’d spent years maintaining an elaborate deception, he was remarkably bad at hiding his emotions. His obfuscating skills were clearly limited to one realm. “Considering Martok’s offer?” he asked.

“I will not sit idly by while Dukat hands Cardassia over to the Dominion for subjugation.”

“I see. Debating how to best serve the state,” said Bashir. He continued to fake his nonchalant air, thus telling Garak a great deal about his preference.

“There is also the matter of conversation.”

“Oh?”

“I will be starved for good conversation once you leave, Doctor, and knowing Klingons, I suspect the same can be said for you.” It was a truth, if an incomplete one. He also felt sure Dukat would manage to kill him this time.

Bashir grinned. “There is a simple solution to that problem, if conversation is worth surrounding yourself with Klingons.”

“I have always prized it highly.”

“There is one thing you ought to know.”

“What’s that?” asked Garak warily.

“If we’re going to keep having conversations while naked, I insist you start using my name. There are some contexts in which a man doesn’t want to be called by his professional title.”

As conditions went, it was acceptable. “I suppose I can accommodate,” he said.

“Good. Julian it is, then.”

He’d meant first name? How very forward and dangerously intimate.

“I’ll still call you Garak, if you prefer.”

“I would,” he said, and decided this was an acceptable compromise.

Consulting for a Klingon general. This was not a path Garak had ever expected his life to take, but he had a chance to be of use against the Dominion and continue enjoying Julian Bashir’s company. Only a fool would decline such an opportunity.

Garak had been many things in his life, but never a fool. He started packing.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in the first part of an abandoned sequel, wherein Bashir and Garak establish themselves among the Klingons, you can check it out [on my Tumblr](https://aurora-nova-fic.tumblr.com/post/187922526240/scenes-from-an-abandoned-sequel)


End file.
